Green Guardian Angel
by ssj2luke
Summary: Mrs. Morrison has developed a deep friendship with her guardian angel over the past two years. The only problem is, she still has no idea what he looks like. Will he trust her enough to show her, or will she find out the truth about Raphael some other way? 2K3 cartoon. Two years after the episode "Touch and Go."


Author's Note: So my mind is all over the place. I'm in the middle of two different stories, and I just thought of a new one. Not to mention, I can't focus on this very well, what with college getting in the way and all. I was inspired by the story by Kakawot entitled, "Blind Faith," starring Raph and Mrs. Morrison. Like Kakawot, I thought Mrs. Morrison was underdeveloped in the 2003 TMNT series, and wanted to see more with her. So here's the beginning of a story about how Mrs. Morrison discovered Raph's identity. And I'm inventing a first name for her.

**Green Guardian Angel**

Mrs. M stood beside her windowsill, lighting dusting the ridge with a dirty rag. She hummed one of her favorite classic tunes as the rag swayed back and forth, staring into the emptiness of space, allowing the light summer breeze to wash over her face and create a mental image of waving lilies in a lively garden.

She hummed to herself softly, "And I like it, how about yoooooouuuuu…." Closing her eyelids and letting herself daydream.

She was eagerly waiting for her young friend to come visit her tonight, as it was a very special night for him. Today was her friend's eighteenth birthday, and she had spent the last few hours carefully preparing a cake for him.

'_It certainly_ _wasn't easy,'_ she thought to herself, chuckling lightly. '_Mixing the ingredients aside, it was almost impossible to feel the numbers on the temperature dial on the oven. I could've sworn I was going to burn it.'_

What made her excited was the fact that her friend didn't know she knew his birthday. In the almost two years they had been friends, he had not once mentioned it. But, using her sense of hearing, she was able to detect the hidden excitement he had displayed when he had visited her exactly one year ago. She only knew of one thing that would bring her friend out of his stubborn moodiness, and that was it.

Thinking about how her friend was about to enter the world of adulthood, she thought back to how they had first met, and how he had helped change her life.

"Yes, who's there?"

Speaking those words into the darkness a little less than two years ago, Mrs. Morrison had no idea of the effect they'd have.

Graying, growing wrinkles, and at the ripe age of sixty-three, Julianne Morrison's life was a wreck. Her husband had been dead for over five years, a result of an untimely stroke. She had tried to get him help as fast as she could, taking him to the hospital immediately, but the doctors had informed her that it was too late to save him.

He lasted for only five more days.

Approaching her fifty-eighth birthday at the time, Mrs. M felt she was far too young to become a widow. And yet, there she was, staring at her husband's grave not three days later. She let the tears fall freely from her face, and slowly walked back to her pleasant old house, which all of a sudden didn't feel so pleasant anymore.

That's when even more problems reared their ugly faces.

Without a job, she felt the money slip through her fingers like thin droplets of rainwater. She was forced to move out of her house and live in a dilapidated apartment on Atlenger Alley, in the bustling city of New York. She was in unfamiliar territory, with no family or friends to keep her company, and she was far too depressed to do much of anything at the time.

That's when she met Lucy.

Mrs. M. was walking back to her apartment one day after a brisk walk around the neighborhood, when she heard a faint whimpering sound inside one of the dumpsters. Looking inside, she was startled to find a small white kitten pawing through the garbage. Judging by its prominent ribs, it had clearly not eaten in days, and was in desperate need of care. So, being the kind woman she was, Mrs. M took her in. While the kitten wasn't much, it grew into a domesticated and healthy cat, and Mrs. M was glad to have some form of companionship, even if it was only eleven inches tall.

And then the biggest problem of all occurred.

Before the death of her husband, Mrs. M had been known for her sharp eyes. She could spot any stain on a rug, any scrap of food on a plate, any dust bunny unaccounted for. Her vision was so good it made 20/20 look blurry. But with the death of her husband, the loss of her money, and the lack of much company, the stress began to get to her. And her eyesight began to weaken. By the time she had realized what was going on, it was too late.

Four years after her husband died, Mrs. M officially lost her eyesight.

The doctors had told her it was possible that sometime in the future they would be able to restore her eyesight, seeing as it was brought on by artificial circumstances and not old age, but she didn't keep her hopes up. A year passed, and she still got no word of a possible surgery or medicine that would cure her ailment. So she pushed on, vowing to stay strong for herself and Lucy, continuing her daily life to the best of her abilities.

But then came the horrible news: the bank was foreclosing on her mortgage. She was told she only had a month to move out or she would be forced out. She had hardly any money left, no family to help her, and it looked like all hope was lost. So she spent much of that last month quietly packing her things, and staring out the window, waiting for the inevitable.

However, fate chose that moment to shine on her for the first time in a while, and sent her someone that would change her life forever.

The man told her his name was Raphael. She hadn't expected any company that night; actually she hadn't expected any company ever. But he had just dropped right in front of her door, and, assuming he was one of her neighbor's boys, she had been glad to take him in. He had helped her move her things to the entrance, and after that, they had had a pleasing talk at her rickety wooden table. They drank tea and had cookies, all while recounting little tidbits of their lives. It was one of the most enjoyable nights Mrs. M had experienced in a while. Eventually, she let him leave her apartment, and she sighed, wishing that he hadn't been a figment of her imagination.

And he wasn't.

He came back the next night, proclaiming he had found something on her doorstep. When she had inquired what it was, he responded by shoving a metal case right in her hands. Upon opening it, she was greeted with the object she had for so long been deprived of. Money. Over four hundred thousand dollars' worth, to be exact.

And that's when she knew. This man, or teenager, whoever he was, was her guardian angel.

Not for one second did she believe that he had simply found that much money on her doorstep. No one, outside of someone who genuinely cared about her, would've done such a thing. And being that Raphael was the only person she had had direct contact with in years, she knew that he was the one from the start. She had tried to tell him that fateful night, to thank him deeply for all he had done, but she couldn't get the words out. Instead, she remained quiet, letting the gratitude in her face speak for itself.

From then on, Raphael was a regular visitor. He would come three or four times a week, claiming to have escaped from his fathers' clutches yet again. So, Mrs. Morrison determined, despite having a deep, rough voice that sounded like it belonged to someone around the age of thirty, Raphael was most definitely a teenager. They would often go through a regular routine. He would come in, she would give him several different tasks to do around her apartment, she would reward him with tea and cookies, and at the end, they would have another pleasant conversation. It was standard and dull, but for the both of them, it was a nice escape from their regular lives.

In the months that passed, Mrs. M learned more about her mysterious savior. He was sixteen, learning martial arts from his father, had three identical brothers, liked to lift weights, enjoyed roughhousing with his brother Mikey, and had a secret fascination with knitting, a fact only Mrs. M and his father knew about. His favorite color was red, and he liked to walk around barefoot, something Mrs. M noticed quickly, thanks to the pit-pat sounds his feet would always make on her floor. She was concerned about the condition of his feet, but she wasn't his mother, so she let it be.

She was fascinated by Raphael. She had never heard of someone with such an active lifestyle, and yet such a reserved one as well. He would tell her about he always liked to be in the shadows, and how even at times he felt distant from his brothers. He would occasionally let his temper get the best of him, and that would sometimes alienate him from the people he loved. It took her a while, but Mrs. M began to develop an understanding of such a complex individual. She could understand his loneliness, seeing as she had spent so much time alone herself, and she could understand having no one to truly connect to.

So in a way, they became kindred spirits. She needed him for someone to talk to, and he needed her for someone to keep him grounded.

But, in ways, their friendship wasn't complete. For one thing, she still didn't have a sense of what he looked like. Whenever she would meet someone, no matter how rare the instance, they would provide her with a detailed description of what they looked like. Hair color, eye color, body type, etc., they would let her know. But not Raphael. Whenever she would lean towards the topic, he would change it as quickly as possible, leaving no time for her to delve.

She had tried getting close enough to touch him. Her sense of visual imagery had expanded to the point where a grasp of the hand or a stroke of the face would place a mental image of the person in her mind. But whenever she scooted over to where he sat, he would always stay just out of her reach, as if he was afraid to let her "see" him.

They had become close friends over the past two years, but without a way to see a picture of Raphael in her mind, Mrs. M felt somewhat empty. After all, how could she truly connect with someone she couldn't see?

What made things more confusing for Mrs. M was that, recently, she had felt that their relationship was expanding to something much more personal than friendship.

'_Whenever he doesn't come in for a pleasant conversation,'_ She thought, '_He comes because he's feeling angry, or depressed, and he needs someone to express his emotions to. It's almost as if he…needs me to be his supporter, his guide. He's told me more about himself than any person has ever told me, and I feel as if he really trusts me after all this time. For him, that's quite a statement.'_

Realizing her windowsill was probably beyond clean at this point, she took her rag and began washing it in the sink.

"I must think a way to make this relationship complete. I've got to get him to let me see him." She said quietly to herself, "We've been such good friends for so long, and we've connected in more ways than I can think for any other person I've met. I can't trick him into letting me see him; that would probably damage our friendship. I care for him far too much to let that happen."

She stopped talking and continued scrubbing her rag for a few minutes. After she was certain it was clean, she put it away and went to sit down on her chair. She put her head on her chin and thought deeply about what she had just said.

_I care for him far too much to let that happen…_

_Care for him far too much…_

_Care for him…_

"I really care for him." Mrs. M suddenly realized, sitting up. "He's been such a good friend to me, supporting me through my tough times, listening and caring about what I say, giving me all that money to help me get my life together. He's like the son I never had…"

Strengthening her resolve, she stood up, and took the cake she had prepared for Raphael out of the refrigerator.

"I know exactly what I'll do to convince him to let me touch him." She said, "I'll tell him the truth. I'll tell him that I care for him like a son. That the experiences we've been through have led me to think of him as one of my own."

Grabbing a match, she struck it and carefully began lighting the eighteen candles on Raphael's cake. After finishing, she sat down and envisioned the soft glow the candles were giving in the early evening light, letting their warmth soothe her in preparation for the information she would soon give her young friend.

"I can only hope," She said sadly, "That he can finally let down his defenses in front of me, and show me his true self."

Author's Note: Hope you like this first chapter, Kakawot, as well as the rest of you who may read this. I think my writing has gotten better in the year and a half I've been writing. Please review, and I'll get to the next chapter as soon as I can.


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